


each crumb to reincarnate

by lovelylogans



Series: 13 days of halloween [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Baking, Brotherly Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: Some of the fondest memories of his childhood are in the kitchen, with his mother and brothers—learning how to flour a rolling pin, how to roll cookie dough into perfect little spheres, how to lattice pie crust, how to measure and mix and combine and plate, how to make them look as wonderful as they tasted.Now, it’s just him.He doesn’t mind it being just him, really. He loves to bake, never mind the addition or subtraction of people to do it with him. The only thing it changes is if he puts on music, if he laughs as often, if he flicks flour off his fingers to stick to shirts like dustings of stubborn snow, if that near-constant weight in his chest lightens a little with the aid of good company to help him carry it, just for a little while.





	each crumb to reincarnate

**Author's Note:**

> _Again and again,_  
evenings winter into spring,  
_he creates the most fragile_  
_of confections: madelines_  
_and pinwheels, pomegranate crisps_  
_and blue florentines;_  
_each crumb to reincarnate_  
_a woman – a savoring_  
_of what the living once could bring._  
  
[_-a poem for will baking,_ susan rich](https://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/a_poem_for_will_baking_7729)  

> 
> so, this is for the 13 days of halloween prompt over at [@sanderssidescelebrations](https://sanderssidescelebrations.tumblr.com/post/187843455281/sanders-sides-spooky-month)! today’s prompt is **fall baking!**  


It’s a routine Patton’s had, it seems, for as long as he’s known how to brush his teeth and comb his hair and tie his shoes—he’s always known how to bake.

Some of the fondest memories of his childhood are in the kitchen, with his mother and brothers—learning how to flour a rolling pin, how to roll cookie dough into perfect little spheres, how to lattice pie crust, how to measure and mix and combine and plate, how to make them look as wonderful as they tasted.

Now, it’s just him.

He doesn’t _mind_ it being just him, really. He loves to bake, never mind the addition or subtraction of people to do it with him. The only thing it changes is if he puts on music, if he laughs as often, if he flicks flour off his fingers to stick to shirts like dustings of stubborn snow, if that near-constant weight in his chest lightens a little with the aid of good company to help him carry it, just for a little while.

All that aside, though, the fact that he loves to bake doesn’t change.

He decides to make some [apple cinnamon blondies](https://www.bakerita.com/apple-cinnamon-blondies/). They’re not too labor-intensive, they taste amazing, and they’re something he can easily cut up into squares and give away so he doesn’t eat a whole pan by himself. It’s not a family recipe—Patton’s heart can’t take that added level of bittersweet sentimentality today, he thinks—it’s just something he found that looked good. Fun. Easy. Something to keep his hands and his head relatively busy, and something sweet to eat for an easy shortcut to comfort.

So Patton gets out a pan and a skillet and the ingredients as the oven preheats, and he settles in for his most-loved routine.

He cuts apples into chunks. He does not think of the yearly apple-picking daytrips that he and his five brothers and their parents went on as soon as apple season arrived, and gallon buckets of apples they’d all cart home, and the homemade apple sauce and apple pie and apple _everything_ that they’d be eating for a month after.

He melts a tablespoon of butter in the skillet. He does not think of the time that his younger twin brothers distracted him to the point of forgetting a whole stick of butter was out on the counter and he came back into the kitchen to a disgustingly soggy puddle barely contained by a paper wrapper that once held a rectangular block of butter.

He puts the brown sugar and the apples in the skillet and lets them simmer together on low heat. He does not think of his brother shrieking after accidentally burning his hand on the stove, despite all his usual caution; he does not think of the big, watery smile and the hug he’d given Patton after Patton had helped him soak it in cold water and kissed it better. 

He melts butter in the microwave, whisks together more brown sugar and egg and vanilla and flour and salt. He does not think of his brother, eyes narrowed in concentration as he carefully stirred the contents of a bowl without tipping it over, giving him an even more snake-like appearance than usual.

He adds in the apples and cinnamon chips, mixes it all until it’s relatively uniform, and steals a little bit of batter-coated apple to sample the flavor. He does not think of tiny hands sneaking in and poking obvious thumb-sized dents into the batter in order to sample it, in spite of scoldings of the potential salmonella they’d all get.

He pours the batter into the pan and smooths it all over so that it’s even. He does not think of one of the twins deliberately making his baked goods lumpy and uneven and as unappetizing as they could possibly look, and seeming disappointed when they turned out tasting just as sweet as all the rest of them, anyway.

He puts the pan into the oven and spins the novelty timer shaped like a cartoonish rocket to 30 minutes. He does not think of the brother who gave the timer to him for his birthday or the cat-printed wrapping paper they’d all used for that birthday.

He tidies up his dishes as the blondies cook. He does not think about the assembly line of brothers, washing-drying-putting-away, in the aftermath of each and every kitchen experiment, the soap-and-water fights that would ensue more often than not.

He jumps as the timer goes off, lost in thought, and hastily pokes through a toothpick to see if it comes away clean. He does not think of his brothers poking through toothpicks of their own and then pretending to sword-fight with them, pouting as their toothpicks splintered due to too-hefty swings.

He sets the pan on the stove and allows it to cool as he puts away dishes. He does not think. He does not think. He does not think.

He slices himself a probably-too-soon-probably-too-big square and takes a big bite, ignoring the burn in his mouth in favor of savoring the sweet apple, the sharp cinnamon, the subtle vanilla. He eats it, slow and steady, letting the sweetness overwhelm his senses, refusing to think of anything else.

He eats, and he does not think of the phone that won’t ever ring, and he does not think about that too-heavy weight in his chest, and he does not think of times long gone and past and that will never, ever come back, no matter how hard he wishes.

He bakes. He cleans. He eats. He does not think.


End file.
